


Nice Things

by xstxrxpxs



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Comfort Reading, Coping, Fluff, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Present Tense, Self Care, Self-Indulgent, Trans Male Character, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2019-10-15 05:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17522789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xstxrxpxs/pseuds/xstxrxpxs
Summary: I project my tendency to think that skincare/smelling nice takes care of my life problems onto my favorite Spider-People. Several headcanons in a trenchcoat. Also, brief notes on the history of cologne, for whatever reason. Pre-Into the Spiderverse for everyone (except Miles, oops).





	1. Peter Benjamin Parker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I...love The Spider-Man and want him to take care of himself, goddamnit. That's it.

It feels...silly that in his line of work, this is the sort of thing that makes him the jumpiest--and, strangely, the guiltiest. He supposes it’s its own kind of vice, albeit one that keeps him clearheaded. Peter is at the druggist’s, arms full of bottles and tins. He steps up to the counter and places his bounty down one piece at a time: Rosebud Salve, cold cream, sweet-smelling pomade, and a smoky, glass bottle of ladies’ perfume with something called “neroli" in it. The writing on the label is all in Spanish, but he recognizes the drawing on the front as orange blossoms.

He hoped he had not lingered too long at the cosmetics display. The druggist was staring at him. _Oh!_ He shook his head as if to clear it and slid the last item, a bottle of talcum powder, over the counter. This druggist must be new: Peter’s never seen him before.

Peter appreciates that he keeps quiet. No need to spin any stories about a girlfriend this time. He slides over some money as the druggist wraps everything in paper and as they catch each other’s eyes, all the man does is nod.

“Thank you,” says Peter, and he is out the door.

* * *

 

That night, Peter tumbles into his apartment from the fire escape and stops his momentum by grasping the back of a chair in the kitchen. He slows his breath until he stops shuddering. It takes a few minutes before he’s returned to himself. Then he can walk across the kitchen, shut the window, and close the curtains. It is about three in the morning, by his watch. He takes off his boots and puts them by the window. He peels off his blood-and-rain-slick outer layers and hangs some on the coatrack to be dealt with later. Others go straight into the washtub. He laughs to himself that no visitors have ever thought to question why his coatrack is permanently set up by _the fucking window_.

He heats a little water, then pads over to the bathroom, wool socks dry and quiet against the floor. It’s then that he remembers the twinge in his chest, and he reaches up his shirt and peels off the bandages he uses to bind.

The bathroom practically gleams compared to the rest of the walk-up. The water he’s prepared isn’t enough for a bath, but he strips out of his dry underthings, steps into the tub, and carefully rubs himself down with a wet washcloth. There’s enough water left to quickly rinse his hair, and for that, he is grateful. He towels off, gingerly avoiding wounds that his body is slower to knit back together.

He twists open the tin of salve and rubs it into hard calluses and his rough nails. As he rubs it into his split lip, he winces and knows the pain will be worth it. The smell is comfortingly familiar. He dots cold cream onto his face and rubs it in. He liked to think it could smooth the scar tissue left behind by his...night shifts. He thinks about using it to shave, but doesn’t want-- or need--to tear up his skin any further. He detangles his hair: first with his fingers, then with a stiff, metal comb.

Finally, he sprays a little perfume into the air and leans forward, into the cloud. It smells...delicious. Like Florida Water, but, perhaps, a little more acidic. It has a kind of bitterness he likes and it's _certainly_ less flowery. He sprays it twice, under each ear.

He hangs his bandages over the door to dry and puts his underclothes back on feeling altogether like a new man. Like, he assumes, a man with some semblance of control or normalcy in his life would feel. This is how he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florida Water is an American take on the original Eau de Cologne (4711) and is a common base for citrus-y, floral colognes. Both of them date back to well before 1933, as well as the other products I have listed here. I just... really like vintage makeup/skincare products (I mean, that aren't actively poisonous).
> 
> Also: don't bind your chest with bandages.
> 
> Comments appreciated! Come talk to me at asteropos on tumblr about Spiderman Noir and his quest to end capitalism once and for all.


	2. Spider-Gwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen cleans up after a pretty typical patrol. Characters being super grimy after battle gives me anxiety and I want to fix it. Really, several headcanons stacked on top of each other in a trenchcoat.

The first thing she does is strip out of the costume and rip off the beat-up sports bra she has sacrificed to the vigilante lifestyle. It’s grey and ugly with hand-stitching over all the tears and slashes, the Frankenstein’s monster of bras, but still works the best under the suit. It’s kind of punk, if you think about it.

No wounds the healing factor hasn’t already taken care of tonight, so there’s no need to pull the first-aid kit out from under the bed.

She changes into a threadbare free t-shirt she had gotten at Pride and pajama bottoms covered in seasonally-inappropriate candy canes. Showering will just wake her up more, so she saves that for the morning unless she’s especially sweaty. Or bloody. It happens. Besides, she has to disinfect the suit in the bathtub for about half an hour before she can sleep.

After this, she always fixes her nails. She picks the dirt/blood/unknown substance out from under them compulsively, always worried someone will ask her why, for whatever reason. She fixes any chips in the polish she’s gained over the night, or, if the night was particularly brutal, changes the color altogether. Tonight, she patches up the existing black paint job and that’s enough. The moments she spends waiting for them to dry, she breathes slowly and mumbles the Hail Mary until they’re dry. Gwen doesn’t think she’s religious, and neither are her parents, really, but her favorite grandmother was. That’s how the words tumble out instinctively, easy as anything.   
Besides, it was meditative in a way that felt more productive than sitting alone with her thoughts. Especially with what her thoughts could look like, nowadays. 

Thanks, Mary, she thinks, absentmindedly.

Nails done. Bam. Next, she detangles her hair. Really, it shouldn’t matter: she’ll wash it in a few hours. It just feels better this way. She reaches for the black tub of charcoal face wash and suppresses the urge to stick her head directly under the tap. She waits until the water runs hot and scrubs, willing her skin to cooperate and not be completely greasy all the time. She grabs a washcloth, dunks it under the tap, and wipes everything off. She knows, rationally, that it won’t have time to work. She still puts a few drops of anti-blemish essence on a cotton ball and sweeps it over her face. 

She’s already lying under the covers when she realizes she has to brush her teeth and truly, it seems impossible at this point in her life. She swings her legs over the side and stalks back towards the bathroom. God, she hadn’t even taken her suit out of the tub. What a nightmare. She hangs it over the shower curtain rod and pinches herself to keep awake. She mechanically brushes her teeth, pops in her retainer, and is nearly asleep on her feet as she walks back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off more direct knowledge (as someone who was once a teenage athlete) and has turned into more of a cathartic "forcing self-care onto characters I care about" thing. Hopefully y'all enjoy, I've got two more chapters in the works right now and would be down for suggestions/headcanons y'all have!


	3. Peter B. Parker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most divorced man alive cries because...sense memory.

He hadn’t really thought much about skincare until he had moved in with MJ. Or haircare. Or using anything besides 3-in-1 body wash that smelled, you know, fine.

At first, Peter was curious by how much space her stuff took up in their bathroom, even though she didn’t really wear makeup outside of work. First, she had shown him products good for healing over scars. He knew they didn’t bothered her, but she must have noticed that the tough layers of scar tissue and crisscrossed white marks bothered _him_. Besides, they could attract unwanted attention.

He remembers liking the rich moisturizer that smelled like being hit over the head with coconut. He started stealing her face cream until she finally put her foot down and took him shopping. His brain took that as a cue to let out the questions Google had not been able to answer satisfactorily.

He was pretty sure he was a combination skin type, and wasn’t it just the worst that the moisturizers best for that were so expensive? Wait--did he have mature skin yet? Oh my god. Does she use toner, or is that just totally a scam?

She sighs.

Probably, yes, probably not, and she’s not sure. She always rattles answers off like a numbered list, when he dithers like this, and it’s very endearing.

The collection of bottles and jars on his side of the sink only grew from there. It became something of a ritual after he’d come in from patrol: wipe down and disinfect the suit, shower as quietly as possible, rub balm on any fresh wounds and plain lotion on the old. He’d wash. Sometimes he’d shave. Rub some nice-feeling moisturizer into his face. God, he never realized what gross shape his skin was in until he could do something about it.

And finally, he’d crawl into bed in the dark, always careful not to wake her up.

* * *

 

He hadn’t had the heart to unpack any of it in...the _new apartment_. He’s not sure where they even are, anyways, since no box-label has been correct about its contents so far.

He stumbles upon them one day, looking desperately for a microwaveable plate--a little of the aftershave she had bought him must have spilled, because the fragrance hits him like a truck. God.

He has to sit down on the futon and hold back stupid, pointless tears. Again. Really, he’s more frustrated than anything. Shouldn’t his brain get it by now and override his new, immediate instinct to just...cry?

He scrambles back up onto the futon, curls up, and rest his head on his knees. Eventually, mechanically, he dabs a rag over the spilled aftershave in the bottom of the box. He picks up the bottles and jars and tins and holds them, standing frozen.

Eventually, he compromises and puts them in the medicine cabinet, behind the first aid kit. Away, but not out of reach.

At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have more chapters on the way and should have one for each of the characters at some point :^) Next one should be Peni? In theory. I'm really enjoying writing this series and hopefully there's an audience for it! Lemme know!


	4. Peni Parker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peni Parker is done with patrol and gets to go to sleep! Also, Future Tech.

Peni has already taken off her safety harness when she pops the top of SP//DR and she swings up and out. They’re perched on the balcony and the light of the city is clearer without shielding. Her eyes adjust to the neon-illuminated cityscape below. She peers around to see if any neighbors are awake. 

Good. No one. Probably would’ve been too late to walk that one back, anyways. 

 

She hits the shiny glass of the sliding door to the apartment behind her and a compartment pops open. It’s sonic power washer o’clock. Maybe it’s closer to 0300, but who’s to say. 

She flips a few switches and starts it on the lowest setting. It doesn’t make noise, per se, but does create an uncomfortable rattling sensation she can  _ feel _ rather than hear. She crinkles her nose and turns up the power. 

 

Something...weird had happened today. And it exploded some sort of glowy, organic-looking goop all over SP//DR’s exterior that is  _ refusing _ to come off. She turns the dial again. There we go--it’s almost enough to knock her over. A chunk of the stuff flies off the edge of the balcony and she switches off the washer to look over the edge. 

There’s good news: it has not landed on her balcony. There’s bad news: she doesn’t know where it is or what it’s going to do to the streetscape below. 

Frankly, it’s too late for it to be her problem any more.

 

She pulls SP//DR inside and hoists it up on its charging frame. The display flashes a thumbs up before shutting down. She takes off her shoes and puts them by the front door, then pads back to her room as quietly as she can manage.

 

She flicks on the light switch, and AsterTrax is playing a gentle sundown on the wall opposite the door, with soft music for the early hour.

Peni doesn’t normally keep her school uniform on for nightly patrols, but she hadn’t had time to change today. It’s a good thing she has a spare, because there’s no way the building’s laundry system will get this back to her before school. She puts on an undershirt and pajama pants and shoves the pile of clothes into the laundry chute. Ugh. Good riddance. 

 

She is so close to sleep. She just has to walk over to the vanity, but that seems like so much effort right now.

She makes it and pops in her retainers, hearing the hum as they kick on and clean her teeth. She brushes her hair and wipes the day from her face with an ozone cloth. Her retainers turn off and bed is calling. 

 

It's lucky she remembers to turn down the time scaling in her room. She’ll need the extra sleep before school, and Addy had said something about wanting to get breakfast first. She falls into bed slowly, as if underwater, and, according to her room, falls asleep a whole three minutes faster than normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...happy ITSV is on Netflix day? Sorry I haven't updated this in forever. I got super stuck and literally graduated college in the time between the last chapter and this one lmao. The influence that made this happen was actually a short story published in Rookie Magazine like...6 years ago called From Here to Violet Stardust, which is where the glamorous sci-fi vibes are coming from. It's really good, would recommend. Don't know how to link it here though.


	5. Miles Morales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles lives in a dorm and I channel my miserable memories of trying to be a human person in communal bathrooms into self-care fic.

Miles ducks in the window and peels off his mask as soon as he hits the floor.

Ganke is up, but what else is new. He looks over at Miles and gives a tiny smile and wave before turning back to what Miles suspects is Minecraft.

Miles grabs some PJs and turns to face the corner while he strips out of the rest of his suit. There's truly nothing better than the way his PJs feel against his skin after it's been in the suit for hours. It's built for function and part of function is comfort, but not like this.

It’s way after lights out, but who kind of jerk is going to nail him for going to the bathroom? He looks at the mirror behind the door before he ventures in the hallway, looking for any especially noticeable injuries that might get him in trouble. There’s nothing his sweatshirt and pajama pants aren’t covering and he can’t see any fresh bloodstains. He grabs his kit, his phone, and his headphones, then cracks open the door and slips out into the hall.

Between the warm socks he has on and the hallway carpet, his footsteps are silent. It’s quiet but for the buzzing of the lights overhead. He hesitates for a moment before entering. He doesn’t hear anyone inside, or even the gurgle of pipes that would indicate someone’s just left. His eyes flick up instinctively to the sign on the door before he pushes in.

He always feels a little guilty using the disabled stall, but there’s a sink here and it’s private so he can clean up without blowing his cover. If someone comes along who really needs it, he’ll move, he tells himself.

Once the door is closed, he pops on his headphones and turns on the podcast he listens to to fall asleep. Gotta get in that headspace, and music would hype him up too much right now. No big cuts today--just a few scrapes, and one spot where the fibers in the suit must have splintered and rubbed the skin below raw. He notes to check that out and see if he can sneak it into the workshop and re-weld everything between classes tomorrow. It’s nothing Neosporin and his box of multi-sized _Red Hood And Nightwing!_ bandaids can’t fix.

Once he’s done, he rinses his face and rubs shea butter into the calluses on his hands. He doesn’t _really_ need to shave yet and for once, that doesn’t bug him. He’s too tired right now anyways. He's looking at himself in the littel mirror there and understands why Peter-with-a-B looks the way he does.

He uses the last of his energy to brush his teeth, packs up his kit, and heads back out. He resists the urge to check his phone and calculate how much time he’ll get to sleep if he collapses here in the hall.

He’s made it without talking to anyone.

Ganke doesn’t register him re-entering the room. Miles opens the door a little wider to let the light in so he doesn’t scare his roommate in his accidental stealth. It might not make sense, but Miles is low-key paranoid about making him faint again.

Ganke looks over, nods in acknowledgement, and the door shuts behind Miles. The room is as dark as it ever gets, with all the monitors. Someone is speaking softly in his ears about cereal and Miles climbs the ladder and scoots under the covers and, as far as he knows, he is already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I will put merch for media I want in unrelated fics; no, I cannot be stopped.
> 
> I also just like the idea that DC produces the in-universe comics for Marvel and vice versa. It's symmetry, or whatever.
> 
> Also listen to The Empty Bowl wherever you get your podcasts. You're welcome, Justin McElroy and Co. 
> 
> Someone described this as cozy and it's all I can think about now.


End file.
